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Mind-fuck me harder

You: Be so intelligent that your own thoughts frequently become unbearable. Hate people less intelligent than you; love and resent people more intelligent than you. Waver constantly between irritating bravado and pathetic self-disgust. Read obsessively, awed and terrified at the brilliance you so hope is inside you, as well. Be an almost-amazing writer, incredibly talented but far too in love with your own words to ever say anything truly new and revolutionary. Know that in that last sentence I split an infinitive, and know that it doesn't really matter because we're not speaking Latin here.

Use your clever wit in manipulative ways: hide your flaws, point out my flaws, and protect yourself from ever having to admit you don't know something. Feel physically ill when you see the word "definately." Write people off too soon, sure that you're too old now to waste your time with anyone below your standards (which you don't ever define because seeing them spelled out would probably make you look an asshole). Make the cool fall air crackle with your sarcasm, misanthropy, and icepick-in-the-chest insight. Leave me always wondering if deep down you're really cruel or really kind, in part because you're not entirely sure yourself.

Be so fucking smart and introspective that it's almost impossible to connect with another human being. Then connect with me, anyway, and fall in gut-wrenching love with me, and fuck me bent over the arm of your ratty old couch. I know you'll sabotage us someday, because you'll either love yourself or hate yourself too much to give anything of yourself away to another human being, but let's have fun until then.

Me: Absolutely no one. I can hardly wait to disappoint you.